Mr Moriarty
by I Brake For Bishounen Boys
Summary: Not to speak ill of the lucrative market that criminality on a consulting basis presents, but there are some jobs that are just much more rewarding. Moriarty moonlights as a schoolteacher, and for whatever reason, proves to be quite good at it.
1. Chapter 1

_All right, something that's been bothering me for a while, and now I've got it off my chest. I took the math professor aspect of Moriarty from the stories and decided it would be far more disturbing if he were an elementary school teacher. Because this Moriarty is all about the disturbing. :D_

_Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, the BBC interpretation Sherlock, and all associated characters are not mine._

Chapter One

Jim Moriarty was one of those teachers who was more inspirational than most Robin Williams roles of the same vein. He rode into his school on his bike, with proper head gear and all, to impress on his students the importance of the environment and street safety at the same time. The kids loved him almost as much as he loved his job. Parents, when confronted by the unassuming Irish accent and his impeccable manner of dress, couldn't help but trust him.

How the world's most prolific criminal mastermind even found the time to be the finest schoolteacher on this side of the Isles was anyone's guess. It was the superlative case of compartmentalization at any rate. His two lives barely mixed. But when they did, he got angry.

"Why did you bring me here?" Moriarty said with barely restrained rage as two of his thugs finally came into the leaky warehouse. He thought wistfully to his abandoned night in, with the papers scattered all over the floor, the hot cocoa getting lukewarm on its handmade coaster, and_ In Bruges_ paused on the telly.

"We found the informant."

"What_ informant_?" Jim asked, rubbing his face out of frustration. "In case you forgot, my organization is filled with fucking informants. It's one of the downfalls that comes with having a fucking organization of such fucking magnitude."

"Well, we have the Schelpps informant," said one of the men. It was incredible how Jim could turn great burly men twice the size of him into shuffling schoolboys with just a few harsh words.

"It's called a mobile phone. You use it when you think I might be too fucking occu... all right, bring him in, let's get this over with," Jim muttered.

A man, writhing and bloody was pulled in on one of the men's cue. He had had his arm broken, and several of his teeth were missing. Jim sighed.

"There's one punishment for traitors," said Moriarty, having the heart to look somewhat psychopathic and fearsome. "Throw him in the Thames. I'd normally think of something more creative, but it's a school night and I have papers to grade."

He wasn't even given an odd look by his men any more, who had by now grown used to their leader's eccentricities.

That night he curled up on his sofa grading papers and sipping a fresh cup of cocoa while Colin Farrell proved that he was just the most adorable piece of God-given talent on the planet.

Jim came to Anna-Lee Schwartz's book report, and set down his mug to pay special attention to this one. It was painfully apparent, at least to him, that Anna-Lee was consistently underachieving on her schoolwork, and he was still trying to discern why. He warranted boredom, but then reminded himself that not everyone was like him and Sherlock Holmes. Clearly, there was some other aspect that he was totally overlooking.

Maybe she didn't want the attention?

What an odd notion, but not one completely unknown to him. From Jim's years of dealing with children of this age, he knew that clever children did one of two things; they were either incredibly obnoxious about their talent through showboating or underachieving, or they became terribly withdrawn out of fear of their classmates. But this particular class showed an uncanny amount of tolerance to non-uniformity; there was a great deal of the laissez-faire naivete that children exhibited in younger grades.

So what oppressed Anna-Lee Schwartz?

"Oh," Jim murmured, his eyes widening in realization. He set the paper down, and continued to watch _In Bruges_, mind systematically ruling out all possibilities but one.

* * *

><p>The next morning, he biked to his school same as always. Hooking up his bicycle to the rack, he tried not to notice Ms Llewellyn, who had been giving him the eye since he began work here.<p>

"Hello, Jim," said she, using the voice that she reserved for schoolchildren and perspective crushes. "Nasty weather for the bicycle, yeah?"

Jim looked up absently. It was overcast and spitting a little, but hardly the worst weather he'd biked in. Ms Llewellyn redoubled her efforts.

"Marking papers last night, eh?" she said jovially. "Bless the little creatures, but sometimes they just write too much..."

"I think verbosity is something to be encouraged, Ms Llewellyn," Jim said with a laugh. "I found my kids' papers a joy to read."

"You're always so good about the children, it's admirable," she said. "But you mustn't call me Ms Llewellyn when there's nobody around. I'm Clarice to my colleagues."

"I will keep that in mind when I count you as my colleague, _Ms Llewellyn_," Jim said curtly. He usually would have tolerated this banter, but this morning he was cranky from having to leave his home in the middle of grading. He took his bag and marched to his classroom to get ready for the day.


	2. Chapter 2

_Next chapter. I'd make them less damnably short, but unfortunately I have the demands of my own psychotic professors to deal with. Enjoy!\_

_PS: Should I put Sherlock in this story? Because I have an exceptionally silly premise if I did._

_Disclaimer: Sherlock not mine. Associated characters not mine. Characters original to this story mine._

Chapter Two

The staff room was rarely graced by the presence of Jim Moriarty, given that he arrived and went directly to his classroom to prepare. He was fastidious and detail-oriented, or so Ms Llewellyn liked to say, but the other teachers reckoned he was just stuck-up. The worst part of it was that he was clever, smart as a whip, and was about ten times better at the job than they were. This didn't help them to like Jim at the least, and would have been a chafing characteristic even if he didn't have a way of getting under their skin as innocuously as possible.

Mr Mark Davies remembered just one other time when he had felt as uneasy as he felt about Jim Moriarty, and that was when he had lived in that three-hundred year-old house that was rumoured to be completely and violently haunted. He'd always felt like there was someone watching him, putting things where they had no business being, even interfering with his thoughts. Jim, though completely respectful of his things and his thoughts, he supposed, had the same disorienting and unnerving effect. If there were dogs allowed at the school Mark had no doubt that they would have cowered and whimpered at the sight of the man.

No way he would have let his kids anywhere near that freak.

Mark sat in the staff room, sipping his coffee and wondering how to make algebra interesting to his students when he himself could barely stand it, when he was startled by the object of his unease's overly chipper voice.

"'Morning Mark!" Jim said, bicycle helmet tucked under his arm. "Grey day, innit? Fancy a brew? I slept late, so I had to dash without my usual, but I see you got your coffee."

A morning person too. Typical.

"What kept you up?"

"Grading papers," Jim said without missing a beat. Mark got the sense he was lying. "Where do they stash the Orange Pekoe in this place?"

Mark sighed and opened his computer, taking a look through the news. The beaten body of a middle-aged man named Silas Grady had been found washed up on an embankment somewhere, and the police were cordially asking for any information regarding the death. Bloody disgrace. This was apparently the third death of the kind that had turned up on a Wednesday, and everybody but the police had every reason to treat them as linked.

"Found it!"

In lighter news, the two-week effort to raise funds for a new swimming pool in central London had gone well. Several hundred thousand pounds had been raised. There was still no official cause for the explosion which had demolished the old pool.

"Catching up on the headlines, then?" Jim asked with a grin as he set his water to boil.

"Yeah," Mark grunted. "Swimming pool fundraiser closed today."

"I'm sure they did well," Jim said candidly.

Mark grunted another affirmative, and closed the website, typing in the address for _The Science of Deduction_.

Sherlock Holmes had come off of his unannounced hiatus, and was posting stuff again. Today it was a couple of pointers for how to solve cryptic crosswords, something Mark found diverting but ultimately uninteresting. He was on tenderhooks for the notes on 'The Great Game', after all, and hoped that he wouldn't just let the other guy write it up. With a sigh, he shut his laptop again, drained his coffee, and started for his classroom.

Jim poured his tea, trying to think of whether he'd made a big enough donation to the swimming pool fund. It was unfair on some of his students that the old one had been so utterly demolished, after all, and he had wanted to make reparations almost immediately. A bit of a lost classroom activity, really; they could have raised quite a good sum if they'd sold chocolate bars or something like.

"Oh Jim, you're in the staff room!"

Ms Llewellyn. Jim forced a smile.

"So I am, Clarice. Just for tea though. Fancy some?"

"Oh, I usually have tea in the evening," Ms Llewellyn said quietly. "Sorry! I see that you're absorbed."

Jim, didn't answer to this. From outside, the first sound of children filtering into the halls reached them.


End file.
